The Leyland Cypress Conflict
by laddertoheaven
Summary: AU in which Stan serves in WWI and Kyle waits while he tries to write.


**Written for The Human Kite. This is entirely unbeta'd and I pretty much just wrote this for fun. Any inaccuracies and such are entirely my fault. Cheers.**

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**i.**

_I will likely be well and situated somewhere in Italy as you read this; on the off-chance that you are up to it, I'd love one of your poems to keep me company with Wendy's letters. My last from her tells me she's fine, visiting her grandmother on week-ends. You're welcome for the daisy; I'm glad it managed to get to you in one piece._

In the den of the lone house by the mountains he kept a painted portrait of the South Downs in the dusty sitting room, though he'd never been anywhere outside of Summit County — if he didn't count his old hometown — and had no plans to venture any further than his front step. Perhaps the market, if he was feeling well enough, but for now he settled before his typewriter and kept a close eye on the clouds outside.

Beside the books and scattered fountain pens lay a few letters, one stained with what Kyle imagined was Belgian mud; another whose corners were slightly worn and one edge a little bit burnt. He often traced the burn with a finger; lightly enough to not receive any sort of papercut, yet the groove was in his memory. He shook that letter out of its envelope and touched it now, closing his eyes. He imagined it'd been the victim of one of Stan's badly rolled cigarettes, or else grazed by hot powder. It smelled of something dark and musky; unknown. Kyle put it back in the envelope upon hearing the front door of the house open, but still kept it close to his chest.

"I managed to get the brussel sprouts and carrots," a throaty voice called, "but they were out of radishes. You have enough spices?"

Kyle sighed loudly and stood up, straightening his shirt and brushing down his dark trousers. He put the envelope back near the typewriter. "They're all in the cabinet." He walked over and took the parcels from Kenny's arms, holding them tentatively. "Tea in the sitting room?"

A smirk. "I hate tea," Kenny remarked, "and so do you." He motioned to the sitting room, the door wide open. "You haven't dusted in a while, anyway."

Kyle turned and looked, viewing the particles that lightly coated the plush blue chair and small oak tables. "Yeah," he muttered, "I guess I'd left it."

For a moment, they stood in the hall, and Kenny — his variation of Kenneth, which felt stiff as a board to him, he'd mentioned as a child — finally grasped Kyle's shoulder, smiling wanly. "He'll write you again," he whispered firmly. "You'll see. You just wait. We've all known each other too long, and he loves you too much. He wouldn't leave you hanging. He's fine. Here, let me get those."

Kyle allowed the parcels to be pried from his hands, and he stood before the darkened staircase, the first few steps illuminated by the light outside. Kenny's words were quick and anxious, riddled with worry as he struggled to keep a good face. Kyle knew he was scared as much as the next person. He turned and drew the curtain, swallowing the grown lump in his dry throat. The last letter was postmarked March 1918, and it had been six months.

_I'm ending this here before I go to sleep. Longer letter when I have more time and energy. Yours truly, Stan_.

War, he'd long since concluded, was inconvenient, and left the slowest ache imaginable.

**ii.**

Beneath the cracked floorboard was a striped pillowcase, and Kyle put the letters there in November, having finally mustered the energy to stop sleeping in the den and return to his cold double bed upstairs. The letters accompanied several trinkets, among them a tarnished pocketwatch and several antique rings, each one slightly older than the last. Kyle lifted a ring with a cluster of tiny metal, painted daisies as its center stone. He daren't put it on for fear of his skin turning some nasty color, but it was pretty to look at and it had Stan's smell, which Kyle had managed to trace in the otherwise undeterminably-scented letter. In that letter he'd detailed what it was like to sleep at night — _how dim these European stars seem_. He'd signed off with _My best, Stan_, and Kyle knew what he really meant but could not say.

He took the ring and held it up in the autumn light, examining each faintly chipped petal. There was a ringing downstairs, followed by a quick succession of impatient knocks. Kyle sighed and placed the ring back in the pillowcase, folding it carefully and putting it back in the slot before sliding the floorboard over and turning down the blanket. He sat on the bed and picked up a book, listening for Kenny's footsteps. He felt odd, as though only certain places in his body were weary; a part of his fibula, a section of his lacrimal bone. As someone clunked along the stairs, Kyle rubbed his nose and blinked slowly, like a world-weary creature desperate for a nap.

"Well, it's nice to see you well, Broflovski." The clunking echoed along the floor and Kyle stared as Eric Cartman made his way to the chair by the door, sitting down without permission. "I guess you're good and cozy right there. Lucky the military decided neither of you were fit for anything to do with war efforts, I guess." He looked around the room, a vague sneer plastering his round face. Cartman had boasted several times about his summer home in England; that expensive cottage by the shore. Kyle only ever pretended to listen, ignoring the rustling, quiet fury in his gut. He crossed his legs and put the book down on his thighs, pursing his lips.

em_It's chilly here sometimes, though I keep warm with thoughts of firesides and mom's cider. Let me know if she got any of my letters, some of the officers are saying a sack of mail was lost at sea some weeks ago. You'll probably get this mid-January, with how slow the carriers are_.

"You know Kenny works for me to take care of his sister. And I don't have to explain myself to you. Say something useful or get out of here, _Eric_," Kyle snapped. "I don't have time for your crap."

Cartman scoffed. "Convenient that he started working for you just when the draft was announced. Well — it doesn't matter." He set his cane by the chair. It slipped down the wall and landed with a resounding _thump_. He swore and bent over to pick it up, his stomach billowing outward from his brown waistcoat. Kyle watched him grasp the cane tightly, putting it back against the wall, eyeing it before turning to his coat. He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a folded-up newspaper, flinging it to Kyle, who caught it only by the edges. Kyle opened up the front page and stared at the splash of black letters across its surface, the font large and slanted in its headline.

"This is true?"

"All wool and a yard wide. Shame for 'em," Cartman remarked, "they could have done with a little more action, like myself."

_My feet hurt terribly and the rain's coming down in buckets. Some boys met their maker not three days ago. You'll remember Leo, I reckon. Some of us still use that one nickname of his, even after death. Makes it feel like he's still here with us somehow, as dim as he could be I guess we sure loved him in any case. The rain's screwing up my letter now so I'll be finishing this later in the tent, or else I'll send it off as is and let you decide what I did with the rest of my evening_.

Kyle turned the paper down and narrowed his eyes. "You were there for _four months_," he said, "and you complained about the food mostly, from what I heard."

There was neither confirmation or denial on Cartman's part. He simply stood, retrieving his cane. Kyle had yet to determine whether or not his leg wound was, in fact, real, yet the occasional twinge in the his face seemed to hint at its validity. Nonetheless, Kyle sighed impatiently and put the paper facedown on the bed. "Why did you bring me this?"

Cartman stared. "Well, you don't leave this dusty, old, secluded deathtrap. And your _nanny _—" he motioned downstairs, where Kenny currently was — "is making your supper. I thought I'd do you civilians both a lovely favor." He turned to leave the room, stalling in the doorway. "Anyhow, it's all over. I suppose you'll see Stanley soon." His tone took on that of a mocking child, causing Kyle to bristle. Cartman jabbed his cane outwards and looked over his shoulder to him now.

"And you ought to trim your hedges. I know they were hedges once. Just because you have no neighbors doesn't mean you should let everything on your land go to shit. Take some pride."

When he left, Kyle threw the paper after him before curling up on the bed, stifling oncoming sobs. Whether they were from happiness or exhaustion, he couldn't quite tell. Indeed, mid-January's letter was tucked in the floorboard, atop the rest, beneath the rings. He'd read some of the words aloud, but they didn't sound right. They would never sound right from his own mouth, he thought.

_It'll probably have to do with more trekking across the countryside, by cover of night or fog at this point. I'll think of home and try for dreaming. My best, Stan_.

**iii.**

_Dearest — it's strange to finally call you that. I'm recovering from the trip home at my sister's house near Antero Reservoir. Uncle Jimbo's here. I sat on the front porch most of last night. The water's calm, steady like something I can't name. You probably could. The night's here now and I'm bored, lonely, hungry_.

Kyle's fingers stilled on the typewriter in the midst of his novel, admittedly dull and obnoxiously lengthy. Melting icicles dripped outside the den's window, and Kyle imagined he'd like to open it and smell the morning. Opting instead to shift his chair closer to the desk, he continued typing, occasionally pushing small curls out of his face. It'd been a while since his last haircut; perhaps he might ask Kenny to give him a trim tonight.

_I learned the army blocked out some of my letters. It's for the best, probably, nothing pleasant to report from most of my time abroad. I make this sound like a long-spent vacation but I guess it's my way of keeping myself from going out of my own head. I miss you, more than you'll probably ever know. I'd love for you to come see me. Might you try? You'd love the water. It's clear and vast and perfect for your stories. I miss reading things you've written. I miss your terribly clever hands_.

The house creaked under slight pressure from the winds outside, and Kyle felt a shiver run up his back. His publisher would be arriving first thing in the morning for his manuscript, bound in thin twine and set beside old drafts of useless things, stories Kyle had only written for the sake of paying bills. He'd heard that he was renowned by competitors in the city for being the most private, witless bastard in all of Colorado. Kyle supposed that was alright. It didn't matter what anyone else thought of him, not if their names didn't begin with S. Not if their eyes weren't clear and reminiscent of midnight in summer.

_I'm laid up with a hurt leg, like Cartman. I guess I'll be gettin a cane and prancing up and down the market streets now, boasting about my victories with my good man by my side. You'd make a perfect blushing bride, you know. Daisies in your hair, like the ring I gave you. Do you still have it? I'm eager for spring when I can go and pick you some real ones_.

When Kyle finished up his last page, it was nightfall. He decided to forego the trim. He took tea to bed and barely sipped it, knowing he hated the stuff but needing some sort of warmth in his hands. Kenny had long since fallen asleep, having mailed part of his salary to his sister in South Park this morning and exhausted from the day's trip. Kyle felt guilty as always, living so far from a proper postman.

_I'll get to bed now. I'll think of the overgrown Leylands. I'll bet you haven't taken care of them, but I guess that's alright. It's my job, isn't it? I'll bet they looked grand as hell at Christmastime_.

Dreams never came to him anymore. The newest letter, postmarked yesterday, lay underneath his pillow, half of his bed cold and full of long-uttered whispers from two years ago. They could live as they did because no one noticed, or gave signs of noticing anyhow. But Kyle wanted everyone to know of his heart, swollen with rivers of old words; that gentle hurt over the boy from his childhood mountain town. Kyle imagined Stan's voice now, whispering in his ear, singing lowly with a voice unfit for gramophones, but perfect for Kyle's own ears.

_I'm sorry for all the questions. I know you hate it when I'm like this. I just worry for you in that house by yourself. Sometimes it's fine. Sometimes it's like our own little island, no one to talk to but each other and sometimes Kenny, or your brother on his yearly visits. I know you often prefer that. I do too, lately. It's hard to talk with Shelly or Jimbo without dodging questions. I think they'll learn not to ask after me so much in the future_.

Kyle looked out at the night and wondered if he'd ever manage the courage again to step foot beyond his wide plot of land, or if he would forsake his treasured privacy so that he would be able to look out of more than one side of the house every day. The Leyland Cypresses were overgrown and Kyle had yet again neglected to dust the parlor. Kenny had mentioned he'd do it tomorrow, leaving Kyle to feel helpless and childish. He could very well clean his own house. The difficulty was venturing beyond it. He'd once made it to the market in town and back within a couple of hours, though very quickly and with Stan by his side.

_If you can find it in yourself to come see me, please try. Bring Kenny with you if you like; I enjoy his company as much as any. Otherwise, I'll be on the first train home and at your front door by January 4th_.

_I love you - Stan_.

Without another thought, Kyle drifted to sleep, thoughts of Stan's arms wrapped around him bringing only the smallest of comforts.

**iv**.

"I'd like to go with you today," Kyle uttered after a long silence in the kitchen, elbows covered in suds. Kenny stopped scrubbing a cup and stared at Kyle for the longest time, dirty blonde hair falling in his face. He brushed it aside to get a better look at him. "I mean," Kyle said, "later today, anyhow."

"Go where?"

"To town," Kyle clarified, wiping his arms and hands with a spare tartan dishcloth. "Stan's coming home tomorrow, and I'd like to get some things. I know he'll want that damn stew for dinner, with the cloves." His voice betrayed bitterness, and he fought to keep it at a reasonable level. Kyle had made one of Stan's favorite soups in September, hoping that when he ate it, the lonely ache in his heart would lessen. If anything, it had doubled since then.

Kenny smiled kindly and patted his arm. "Don't worry about it," he said. "He'll be ecstatic to see you anyhow. I told you it'd be alright, didn't I?" He put the cup in the cabinet and shut it a little too loudly, causing Kyle to jump. Kenny apologized swiftly and cursed beneath his breath, tending to the rest of the dishes. Kyle blinked, then retreated to the den, sitting in his chair before his years-old typewriter, probably blue like the water Stan spoke of in his letters. His latest story was about a fictional local hero, a boy who welded iron and made daisy chains for the children of his town. Things Stan used to do before he came to Breckenridge to live with Kyle — first as a friend, then as a lover.

When the time came, he put on his coat and scarf, boots and gloves. He got to the front door, Kenny waiting, having finished hitching up the horses. He stopped short of the porch stairs, chest beginning to heave. Kenny turned to gaze at him, offering his hand. Within minutes, Kyle took it hesitantly, his muscles shivering and dancing erratically. It felt strange, being so exposed out in the open. He'd been this way since he was young, and it had only grown worse with time. But he could do things with Stan by his side. With Stan, it was as though the world was small, and they were the only inhabitants that truly ever mattered. He would be home tomorrow, and had only been gone for two years, yet it seemed so long ago — a lifetime away.

Climbing the horse was another matter entirely. Kyle approached the mare with a cold sensation gliding all around his stomach, as though he wasn't supposed to be doing this — _shouldn't_ be doing this. He glimpsed the stables beyond the house, small and relatively clean. He looked back to the mare, who was staring him down with dark eyes and wide, long lashes. Kyle gulped and managed to get a firm hold on the seat rise of the saddle, one foot hooking on the stirrup. It took a couple of small hops before Kyle managed to swing his leg around and over the horse herself, his body trembling all over. Kenny gave him a hopeful, encouraging look before setting off ahead, Kyle managing to follow close behind. He wished he had a motorcar like richer folks, but it would be an eyesore in this part of town. Besides, he didn't want to waste money on such a thing. He knew Stan would be heartbroken if Kyle had opted for wheels and motors over something nature-made and sleek.

In town, the vendors greeted them, taking care to keep their surprise subtle at seeing Kyle outside of his home. The horses were left with a stablehand by the small church. When they returned, the stablehand was staring at Kyle, blurting that he'd seen him once before and thought he'd long since died. Kenny roared with laughter while Kyle thought his knees might give out. Once they'd gone horseback once more, Kenny gently urged his own mare alongside Kyle's and gripped his shoulder tightly. Kyle briefly pretended it was Stan's hand, though it was hardly the same. "He'd be pretty damn proud of you," Kenny muttered. "Stan, I mean. You should tell him when he comes."

"I suppose I might."

Kenny nodded. "I tell you, old boy," he said, "you're more put together than I thought you'd be by now."

Kyle faltered, then began to grin. Inside, he thought he felt something begin to piece itself back together.

**v**.

When he turned up it was nothing like Kyle imagined, yet it was everything he'd tried to dream of. His notebook was filled with pages of what he thought Stan would look like once he'd returned home — tan from the summers, flushed from the winters, scarred or strange-eyed. The reality of it was a crutch and a suitcase, and Stan still in his uniform, having worn it because Kyle had once written to him asking that he would. He stood on the front porch and stared at Kyle. His face was lean and his hair had grown. His shoulders were broad and his legs were long, covered with boots and blue cloth.

"It's like I said, then," Stan murmured, and his voice washed over Kyle as only the most gentlest of ocean waves would — or at least, how he pictured they would. "The hedges are total trees now. It's going to be a bitch to cut those down to size, you know that?" His voice was playful and modest, and it took all Kyle had not to kiss him there on the porch. He merely picked up Stan's bag, staggering once he'd registered the full weight of it in his hand. He heard a chuckle and Stan's hand brushed over his, taking the bag and setting it down inside. Kyle closed the door behind them and they stood there, staring at each other, then the walls. Their eyes wandered and Kyle's hands shook, unsure of what he should do first.

"It's a little dusty," Stan said. Kyle pretended to huff, putting his hands on his hips. "Well," he replied, "housekeeping isn't my, ah — forte. Per se."

"Forte, per se. Yes, I see now why you're a writer."

Kyle elbowed him and Stan laughed, deep and soft. It settled somewhere in the air and Kyle felt it envelop him with a strange sort of comfort. He left the bag and opted to help Stan up the stairs, holding his crutch. He looped his arm around Stan's waist and helped to hoist him up the first step. Stan put his arm around Kyle's shoulders. They made it up three steps, only stopping short when Stan flinched and hissed. Kyle looked at him and drew him closer, holding Stan's wrist as tightly as he could. The feel of his skin made him breathe heavier than he intended, and Stan's scent was triggering senses from past trysts. Kyle shut his eyes and opened them again to see Stan gazing at him, eyes darkened and earnest.

"I know it's only been a couple of years," Stan whispered, "but fuck, it feels like forever."

They managed three more stairs, then Kyle couldn't take it. He gently eased Stan back against the opposite wall of the railing, leaning into him and kissing his neck. Stan laughed breathlessly and fingered Kyle's white shirt, reaching up to fumble with a button. "Did you read the first letters of each sentence? In some of what I wrote you?" he asked, and Kyle nodded against him. Stan went on. "'I'm...' 'Longer...' 'Yours...'"

"Hush," Kyle said, "you'll make it meaningless."

"'I love you,'" Stan protested feebly, "is never meaningless."

Kyle responded with a kiss and it took them ages to get off the staircase. He trembled under Stan's touch, thinking he might explode and ask to be taken on the spot as his fingers traced shapes and lines over his back, his ass, his arms. Kyle saw him flinch again from his leg and pressed kisses to his nose and cheeks. Stan reached up and touched his face, and Kyle knew he was counting freckles.

"How much did your last book sell for?" Stan whispered into his mouth.

"It doesn't even matter." Kyle lifted him as best as he could and continued up the stairs, one by one. "It never mattered. All those words I wrote, they were never as — they weren't — what you wrote me, it's worth at least double, okay? It's worth everything. Come here. Lean against me, we're almost up."

"The Leylands —"

"Forget them. I like our privacy. I like being here with you. I went to the market yesterday, you know. I was nearly sick all over myself, but I went and I imagined you were there. And it — everything, it was still hard — but somehow made less, by thinking of you."

"I'd say the same of you," Stan laughed, "but I know how much you hate war prose." They reached the top floor and leaned against the wall. "This goddamn leg," Stan grunted. "It should be fine in a few months. Shouldn't hurt so much. Missing you hurt more anyhow."

"Well?" Kyle teased. "Won't you say you're proud of me?"

Stan gripped him close and kissed him hard. "You know I am," he said. "One day we'll leave here. When you're able. We'll get a real nice house, by a lake. No trees to take care of. Just the horses. You and me."

He spoke between kisses, and Kyle glimpsed a softening in Stan's eyes, a lightening in the irises. Kyle looked at them now. Those warm midnight skies was back, despite all the wet and cold of outside. The Leyland Cypresses swayed with the winter wind, and inside the house, with Stan and the thought of daisies, it was just the beginning of springtime.


End file.
